Turnabout of the Meek
by Shuda51
Summary: About as alternate as an alternate universe will get, look into the retrospective tale of the disgraced lawyer Mike Meekins, as he details his life to a young, unknown reporter.


_First off, a quick author's note:_

_Hi! I'm shuda, and this is my first fic. It's based off of a character idea I had in an AA RP that I was involved in, and it's rolled into this. This story IS EXTREME alternate universe. Despite huge changes in jobs, I've tried to keep character personalities the same, save for two VERY noticeable changes. The first will be seen in this chapter, another later. Those changes are deliberate for this story, so I don't wanna hear "it's not canon lolz" from anyone, got it? Good. This is basically how I imagine the AA world in a VERY different timeline. For as we all know, a small change can have a great impact on the future. Several small changes? That will change everything.  
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_Alright, time to stop delaying the pain. Read, comment, and I hope you enjoy. Thank you.  
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><p>A traveler. That's what he was these days. A traveler of the world, a traveler of the mind, a traveler of the soul. No one knew who he was when he arrived. Few knew even once he left. All most people knew was that he would come to those in need, even if they didn't know they needed it. He was a friendly enough man, but there was always something...disconcerting about him, people would say. That was why the young reporter searched him out. It would be a major scoop. Who was this mystery helper who showed up only to help, only accepting a simple thanks as a reward?<p>

The reporter eventually tracked down the man when he made another stop. All it took was a trip to the bar for an interview to be agreed upon. Two weeks. Eight in the morning. An old abandoned building near the famous Gatewater Hotel. See you then and the man left without warning, disappearing into the sunset.

The day of the interview came up. The reporter arrived at the building, and quickly realized its importance. The building used to be a law firm. You couldn't tell who it used to belong to unless you were there before it was attacked by the Mafia. It was the bearer of most of the damage in the attack, with other buildings along the road also featuring evidence of the assault. The area had been cordoned off as the site of a never ending investigation, but a few string pullings got a special card that would allow access. Not that it was even needed, no one ever came to this place anymore.

The sound of movement startled the reporter. It wasn't the fact that it existed, but the fact that it came from upstairs. Four ruined floors up, the place where the friends of the innocent came to get help. And through that old, familiar door, there he was. The helper of all. The disgraced captain. The ruined attorney.

"Come in, come in." The man had heard the reporter coming from practically a mile away. He still retained a lot of the features that made him so revered, and hated, back in his day. An innate perception. "What're you doing, hurry up, get in!" A rash impatience. "Alright, now then, you wanted an interview? Give me your questions, right now!" A headstrong attitude.

"Wait, no, don't give me your questions, your questions won't lead to anything...Why are you really here?" The reporter didn't immediately answer. This was a new side to the man who had once graced the world of the court. "No, don't say anything. Just sit and write. You wanted to know about who I was, correct? You wanted to know what's happened to the great attorney, to the great leader of the Agency that battled those who wished to place blame on the innocent?" The reporter nodded. "What do you want? A full autobiography? Make your name in journalism and literary fame?" Another, shorter nod. "...You know what it's like to be me? Do you know how long I've been out of the world's grasp? Two years. Two years since the attack on this building. Two years since I've left that job. Two years since the name of Mike Meekins, Defense Attorney, Defense Agency Leader had been used..."

The man looked at the reporter carefully. "You...there's something different about you. Most reporters would come in here, ask questions, wouldn't shut the hell up. But you...you're being quiet...why is that, I wonder..."

The man stared at the reporter, and the reporter stared back. Both were trying to weed out what the other was thinking, trying to check the other in this battle of the mind. Why? 'Why' was the key phrase of the day. Why had the reporter chosen to go with him? Why had he, the former leader, chosen the reporter?

"...Fine. I'll tell you. Sit down, this will be a long talk. My life's been a bumpy road, but I suppose I should start off with that first case of mine...Nine years ago...My big debut for the Fey Law & Co."

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><p><em><strong>Nine years ago<strong>_

_**July 7th**_

_**Case of the people vs. Karl Warner in the murder of Mattias Honda.**_

_**Current Witness: Jonathan Flamenco**_

_**Prosecutor: Winston Payne**_

_**Judge: Judge Gumshoe**_

_**Defense: Micheal Meekins**_

The courtroom was in a ruckus. No one expected such a miraculous turnabout like this. In just fifty minutes, the prosecution's entire case had fallen flat on it's face. An amazing event, considering the prosecutor had over 28 years of experience versus a completely unknown newcomer.

"But, your Honor, think about it! How could Mr. Flamenco have made it over to the victim's house without being spotted?"

A loud sigh came from the defense bench, the court falling silent, waiting for the next counter-argument.

"Just look at the map of the area. All Mr. Flamenco needed to do was make his way over to the victim's back yard. Here, let me give you a summary, just in case you've already forgotten, Prosecutor.

"Our victim, Mr. Honda, was killed the on the night of town's 4th of July festival. Most of the neighbors were out, especially the ones in the victim's area of town. Everyone within a 3 block area of the crime has been accounted for, save for my client, Mr. Warner, and Mr. Flamenco. Mr. Warner is holding a claim that he had been sleeping at home on the night of the crime. However, we have a conflicting report from Mr. Flamenco who said that, while arriving home from the festival, he saw Mr. Warner forcibly enter the victim's house. Fearing for his neighbor's life, he claims to have seen Mr. Warner use one of his prized Tomahawks to attack and kill the victim. Correct so far, Prosecutor, Your Honor?"

The audience turned its attention to the judge. "Hmm... Yes, pal, that's a pretty good summary of the case. But you've already proven some of those points incorrect with Mr. Flamenco's testimony, right pal?"

"Exactly, Your Honor. Mr. Flamenco claims to have seen the attack from the windows in front of the victim's house. However, this conflicts with the floor plan of Mr. Honda's home as well as the details of the attack. The victim's body was found in the back office area, with the broken window. The only way to even see that far in would be to be standing right about here. However, this location happens to be in the flowerbeds of Mr. Honda's house. There were no footprints of any kind found there, save from those of the victim. There's a few additional problems, including the fact that Mr. Flamenco did not have any of the complimentary items from the festival. Things he *should* have had considering when he says he left the festival. Now, that in itself doesn't prove anything. As Mr. Flamenco distinctly repeated multiple times, he could have thrown away some of those items. However, when you take into account how the victim died, then everything becomes clear."

"BUT THAT MEANS NOTHING!" A scream erupted from the witness stand. A large man stood there, visibly shaken. "Just cause I didn't exactly see everything doesn't mean I did it! Hmm? Besides, the guy died with the tomahawk perfectly in the neck! Pow! How'd I be able to even do that from the front? I saw part of the struggle and I saw Warner walk out with blood on his hands..."

"...Thank you Mr. Flamenco, you walked right into that one, hook line and sinker."

"Wha-?"

"Think about it, Mr. Flamenco...When would you have been able to have seen the body and the details of the corpse?"

"Well, I never saw the body per-se, it's just what I've read and heard in the papers and radio. Doesn't mean anythi-"

HOLD IT!

The defense stood with a smug look. Victory was at hand. The bait had been laid, the trap had just tripped. And reeling the catch in was the fun part. "It's just what you've read and heard, eh? That's...odd, to say the least...Media blackout regarding the crime, considering the circumstances, a very odd death. Precise and difficult to pull off, to boot. Only thing I've ever read is that people thought there were multiple strikes on the body, but it was one clean strike. Kinda weird you'd know he was struck right on the neck...We didn't even bring out the crime scene photo since you got here..."

"What?"

"Let me make this perfectly clear for you, Mr. Flamenco. You weren't at the festival at all. Eight PM, Mr. Honda is at home, watching the festival on TV. He eventually falls asleep. Mr. Warner falls asleep at his house, following a party with alcohol. Police confirm that his blood alcohol content was pretty high, all things considering. During the party time, two of his prized tomahawks were stolen, but he didn't realize until just before his arrest. 8:27, you, Mr. Flamenco, make your way over into Mr. Warner's back yard. Wearing gloves, you hop the fence.

"8:29, using your already proven amazing throwing arm, you throw the one of the stolen tomahawks into the window. *SMASH* The glass breaks. Mr. Honda wakes up and, fearing a break-in, approaches the window with his magnum. Two seconds later, at 8:30 on the dot, he receives a second tomahawk in the neck, socketing in just perfectly. Man doesn't even have the ability to scream. Falls down, dies quickly. You then approach the victim's house more closely, which can be proven by this partial boot print we have here. You then take the first tomahawk, and return home knowing that your greatest business enemy is dead and your former best friend is about to get the blame. Sound about right, Mr. Flamenco?"

"OBJECTION! Mr. Mekins! There is no proof for that line of thought! It's conjecture!"

OBJECTION!

"It's Meekins. And actually, it's not. In fact, the backyard is the only place for the attack to come from, considering that the window broke with the glass going INSIDE the house. How would that happen if it broke from the inside?"

The witness let out something that sounded like a fierce roar. "Grr...But you have no proof I was in the back yard! You can't prove I got that second tomahawk, now can you? You can't prove anything!"

OBJECTION!

"Say...Mr. Flamenco...how's the arm doing?"

"What?"

"OBJECTION! Your Honor, Mr. Melkins is just badgering the witness now!" The prosecution was obviously down to their last nerve, about to burst from defeat. How could a newcomer defeat him? Even if he was a disciple of her...

OBJECTION!

"First off, it's Meekins. Secondly, Mr. Flamenco, that's a rather large bandage there...What happened?"

"Well, I, uh..."

"I'll tell you exactly what happened. You went to reach for the tomahawk that broke the glass. You ended up cutting yourself on the glass, no? Must've hurt bad..."

"You can't prove it! You can't!"

"Actually, I can. Take a look at this. It's a piece of glass from the victim's house. Forensics took a look at it, you know what they said? They said that this blood here was the victim's."

"SEE! You've got noth-"

"I'm not done. They also found someone else's blood on the glass. It didn't match dear Mr. Honda's blood. And it doesn't match our client's. I wonder who's it could be. Maybe it matches your blood, Mr. Flamenco? A blood test would help out with that...Maybe the wound also matches, hmm? Honestly, with the amount of suspicion on you, a denial to allow these tests to be performed would practically be an admission of guilt. So, Mr. Flamenco, any particular reason or lie you want to give us as to why your blood would end up on a random shard of glass in the victim's house?"

The judge nodded in agreement. "Yes, this is a very true point. So, pal, answer this for the court: Why would your blood be in the victim's house?"

Mr. Flamenco stood there on the stand, sweating like a pig. He began to feel the noose tighten around his neck. It took fifteen-seconds before he let out a scream. It was a scream of many things. A scream of rage at being caught red handed, trapped in his own poorly spun web of deceit and lies. A scream of sadness at the fact that he would be spending the next two decades of his life in a prison, somewhere in the country. A scream of regret that he had even chosen to kill, even though the target was a disgusting slimeball. The scream penetrated the halls of Justice, and Justice answered with an equally resounding yell of triumph.

Jonathan Flamenco, age 42, successful investor and inventor for the Terumian Corporation, yearly income roughly a million. On the night of July the 4th, using skills earned from the Boy Scouts as well as a natural talent for a deadly art, he killed former classmate Mattias Honda. Honda had found a way to scam Flamenco out of over a million dollars and ruined his reputation in the business. Rather than gather proof of this misdeed to show the proper authorities, Flamenco took justice into his own hands, and found her to be a terrible weapon to use. He broke into the house of his friend Karl Warner, fellow scout, and took two of his prized tomahawks. One broke into Honda's house, the other killed Honda. Thinking his job was done, he called in the cops on his friend. At the following trial, justice, the weapon that he thought would finish the evil of the man, did just that, in a way Honda never thought.

Flamenco was found Guilty of the crime at a separate trial on July 8th. Punishment: 10 years in maximum security. 10 years in state jail. No possibility of parole.

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><p>"That first trial of mine was unbelievable. I wanted to prove my worth, so I asked my mentor to stay with the audience, enjoy a day off. She reluctantly obliged, and the trial was easily won. Almost too easy, considering the circumstances. The prosecution had a good solid case, I will admit that. Yet in the end, it was almost pitiful. His evidence was good, but when twisted to a new light, revealed the truth. His interpretation was also rather clever, but fell flat when taken into account of the other details. The witness testimony would have worked had he not slipped up on a good few notes. But that was the majesty of my plan. Slowly pull away the obvious falsities in his claims, force him to make bigger lies, then when he finally admits part of the truth, reveal that it's the part that will lead to his doom. That first trial set the standard for my law career. You getting this all down?"<p>

The reporter nodded.

"Good. Anyways, like I said, that's how I would walk into a case. I'd spend as much time as possible at the crime scene until I knew it like the back of my hand. I'd quickly get to know all parties involved, you learn their past, you understand who they are, you learn their limits, you can easily lead them where you need to. I went into that trial with a plan for how I wanted it to go, disregarding whatever the prosecution wanted. Keep that key point in mind: Each of my trials, each of my ambitions, each of my goals, everything had a plan mapped out for it. That is what led to 7 years of successful trials that all ended the way I wanted them too. That is what led to 9 years of constant vigilance.

"That is what led to my greatest failing."


End file.
